


All the Ability to Love I Have

by eyesofshinigami



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Language of Flowers, M/M, Random bits of fae lore, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26888803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesofshinigami/pseuds/eyesofshinigami
Summary: Words have power. Everyone knows this.But Jaskier knows this more than most. For as much as he fancies toying around with words in his songs and lyrics, he’s careful to measure the weight and feel of them when they really matter.Which is why Geralt’s words hit him like a physical blow, crack him open down to his very bones. They swirl and twine together with the words his queen had said, right before she banished him to the human realm.OrThe one where Jaskier loves Geralt, and Geralt loves Jaskier, but it takes a lot for them to figure it out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 115
Kudos: 682





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/gifts).



> It only took a hundred years, but I finally managed to finish this fae!Jaskier fic I've been working on! It's entirely Steph's fault, so that's why I'm gifting it to her. I hope you like it, lovely!
> 
> Title and beta are credited to the always wonderful handwrittenhello, who is worth her weight in gold for being the best cheerleader and beta a person could ask for. 
> 
> Also, there will be _lots_ of flower references in this fic, and I've included a note all the way at the end as to the meanings. I was going to footnote them, but... no.

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

But Jaskier knows this more than most. For as much as he fancies toying around with words in his songs and lyrics, he’s careful to measure the weight and feel of them when they really matter. 

Which is why Geralt’s words hit him like a physical blow, crack him open down to his very bones. They swirl and twine together with the words his queen had said, right before she banished him to the human realm. 

_You must carry the burden of your choices, Buttercup. Perhaps next time you won’t be so foolish._

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat as he makes his way down the mountain. One foot in front of the other, step by step, he descends, away from this cursed place. There is a rattle in his chest, a heaviness in his stomach that weighs him down as he walks. The tears come and fall like a storm, a flood of pain and sorrow that threatens to drown him. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

His own power has been trapped underneath his queen’s decree, punishment for his foolish choices in the folly of his youth. Crammed into this pretty human form and kept on a leash, he can always feel it like a phantom limb. He would weave what little power he could muster into the dandelions he plucked from the roadside and put in Geralt’s hair, or through the gentle brush of his fingers as he washed the Witcher’s hair. Nothing too extravagant, but what he could give, he gave to the man who owned his heart.

Except now he knows those blessings were a curse. Geralt’s words told him so.

He sighs and blinks back the tears, wipes the traces of them away from his cheeks. Tears make the trail blurred and dangerous, and even as his heart is shattered in his chest, he doesn’t want to fall off the mountainside. So he walks, and walks, and walks some more. He tries not to cry again and he keeps sighing, hoping it will ease the pain above his heart.

It must work, because the further he gets, the looser his chest becomes. He feels the wind on his face and smells wildflowers in the air. It calls to him, a pounding pulse in the back of his head. Something he hasn’t felt since… wait.

Jaskier looks down at his feet, sees the too-green grass and the spray of flowers underneath his boots. Anemone, begonia, and purple hyacinth in full bloom trail behind him. He doesn’t know when it started, but he knows what it means. Which makes him cry all over again as his Queen’s words come back to him:

_Your magic is mine, until you need it most. Should you find yourself in great distress and pain, only then will it come back to you. This is a punishment, but I am not cruel. Be well, Buttercup, and guard your heart._

Foolish, always foolish. Guard his heart, his queen had said, but he didn’t listen. Now he holds it bleeding in his hands, stray drops blossoming at his feet. 

It is said that fae only love truly once. Jaskier, for all his fleeting fancies and bed-hopping, knows this to be true. Love is trouble, he’s learning. Banished from his court for daring to pretend to love someone he didn’t, and banished from his _home_ for daring to love someone he shouldn’t. It doesn’t change the fact that with every beat of his broken heart, it still calls out for amber eyes and a gruff voice he’ll hear echoing in his ears for eternity. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

\--

He wanders once he reaches the bottom of the mountain. He follows the scent of wildflowers, of familiar green patches and fairy rings, leaves a trail behind him as he goes. He has a foolish hope that _someone_ will follow it, but why would the Witcher? Jaskier never told Geralt of his heritage, mostly because then he would have had to explain how, and why. Geralt would have called him foolish, he’s sure. 

Geralt would have been right.

As he walks, he feels the queen’s spell unraveling. It’s like shedding skin, he thinks, leaving behind the too-tight prison of the human body he’s been trapped in for so long. He feels it all, the slow curving eruption of his horns, the pinching burst of his wings from his back, and the deepening blue-green of his skin. Jaskier the Bard falls away, leaving behind Jaskier in his true form, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. 

As free he feels, magic and sense of rightness flooding through his body, he mourns the loss of his human self. Of what it meant and all of the things that were branded into his skin and memory. The layers fall away and leave him naked, exposed. 

Each step he takes, the flowers flare into bloom and then quickly die, reflecting the sadness that swirls inside of him in a tempest he isn’t sure how to tame. When he lays down at night, resting beneath the shade of whatever tree he can find, he always wakes to find marigolds twined with yarrow in his hair. He pets the flowers with his finger before they wilt beneath his touch.

Another curse, he supposes. 

Jaskier wanders as he loses track of time, listless and lost, without roots or purpose. He could go home now, he thinks, back to his home court. Now that his true nature is returned, he’d be welcomed back into the fae realm and surely his Queen will let him stay. He _could_ , but he also can’t. To go back would mean leaving the human realm for good, and even though the words still echo in his very soul, his heart still beats the same tune it has for more than twenty years now.

_Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Ge-ralt. Ge-ralt. Ge-ralt._

He thinks of Brokilon, where perhaps the dryads would welcome him, let him drink of the waters until he forgets everything that has happened. No more thoughts of cursed blessings and mistakes-- he’d be free to start anew and make a home in the forest. 

But he can’t. To forget would erase everything, and Jaskier the bard is just as much a part of him as Buttercup the fae is, even with the cavernous hole left behind his ribs. 

So he keeps on walking. He makes his way through the forests and swamps of the Continent, careful to keep off the main roads and away from the villages he once danced and sang through. He could conjure a glamour, pretend to still be the Witcher’s bard who sings of the White Wolf, but every time he tries, the words shrivel in his mouth like rotten fruit on the vine. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

And Jaskier can’t find it in himself to give those words power right now. Instead, he locks them up tight and sings to himself, strumming his lute and singing the forgotten words of his home realm. The trees bend towards him and the flowers tremble beneath his bare feet, butterfly weeds and begonias sprouting beneath. He sings and sings until his voice gives out and there’s no songs left inside of him, leaving him empty, bereft.

What is a bard without a song? What is a poet when words taste like ash in his mouth? 

That night, he dreams of Geralt. He is sitting high in a tree and singing, letting his magic wind through the branches and into the very earth itself. The Witcher is below, but he is pulling the roots of the tree out with his hands. Jaskier feels each yank, each tug, and he doesn’t understand why Geralt is breaking him down piece by piece. But then he watches as the Witcher pulls his own heart from his chest and buries it in the dirt, glancing up at the tree and the fae bard within its branches with an unreadable expression. Blood winds up through the remaining roots and from within sprouts poison-yellow chrysanthemums and carnations.

He wakes clutching his chest, and there’s the ghost of a whisper in his ear. A familiar voice, like silk across his skin, that says _you’re not the only one who is bruised and hurting, my pet._ Tears fall and spatter across his tattered trousers, stiff with the dirt of travel and lack of care. Jaskier the bard would never have let his clothes fall to ruin, but Jaskier the fae has more to worry about than dirty clothes and ripped knees. 

He does not give voice to the things he feels, but he wants to. He wants to scream at the sky until his throat shreds and bleeds, wants to use his power to weave his pain through the air until they find the target of all his sorrow. He could, he could speak words that show Geralt just how devastating curses and wishes could be. That Destiny isn’t the only thing that can break him down and bring him to his knees. But he doesn’t.

Words have power. Everyone knows that.

So he writes. As he travels through glades and forests that beckon to his magic, he composes songs in the language of his people, and the human tongue he has grown so fond of. Songs of longing, of loss. Songs of anger and raging fire. Songs of love and heartfelt passion. Songs of the blessings and curses that blossom and wither on his tongue. 

Eventually, he finds a patch of forest that feels right. The trees are friendly, and chamomile and coriander grow up towards him, welcoming him. He sighs and drops himself into the sweet, warm grass that brushes against his skin in soft waves. It isn’t his home, never will be, but for now he can rest here. Bathed in warm sunlight, he lets his magic flow out into the space he claims for himself. He is, at heart, a Summer fae, beautiful and filled with steadfastness of the earth beneath his feet. Of growth and riotous blooms and winding roots of trees. Right now he feels none of those things, but this forest opens its arms and welcomes him, lets him rest so that his heart can heal. 

\--

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he stays there. The trees tell him stories of the world outside, caught from the travelers that make their way through the countryside. They whisper secrets of marching boots and devastation, of men cloaked in death-black hiding underneath a false sun. He knows what it means, down to the marrow of his bones. Destiny will collect its due, one way or the other. 

But it’s not his place. Before, perhaps, he would have stolen away to Cintra to meet Geralt with wild eyes and a taste for adventure. A story unfolding before him that would have lyrics flowing out of him like the waves of the sea to immortalize the tale of a heroic rescue. But not now. The poisonous words that taste like aloe on his tongue come back to him, remind him that his presence is unwanted. A burden. His absence is a blessing.

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

Those words keep him rooted in his forest, his feet planted firmly as he tends to the grove that has become his own. He spends his days singing to the flowers, who sway and dance and twine around his ankles. He naps in the sunlight, hoping the warm, buttery feeling on his skin will chase away the winter chill that has frosted over his heart. 

The same traitorous heart that insists on flying on broken wings, searching and reaching out to the one person who can mend it or crack it further in equal measure. Jaskier thinks he will never give the Witcher the option. 

More days pass and the whispers grow stronger, footfalls marching to the drumbeats of war. Jaskier wakes one day to the smell of charred flesh and spilled blood in the air, of fear and tears and the death of too many things. It frightens him and he lets his magic flow out, heart in his throat as he hopes against hope that it isn’t what he thinks it is. That one queen’s stubborn foolishness and a man’s will to defy his fate haven’t led to the rivers of blood he sees in his mind. 

Cintra is burning.

Crab blossoms and deep crimson roses carpet the forest floor as Jaskier weeps. He weeps for the lives that have been lost so pointlessly, for the greed of men and their need to own and take and pillage, and for the nightmares that this will bring for years to come. Briefly, he wonders if Geralt is there, if he finally claimed that which was his and rescued the poor girl from suffering the same fate as her country. 

But it is not his place. What should he care of the affairs of a princess he barely knew, and a man who scooped out his insides and left them to rot in the sun? 

The problem is that he does care. He cares so much that his entire body aches with it, burns with the need to wield his magic and alter the tapestry of events that are laid out before him. To weave his blessings in bundles of lemon balm and red poppies and lay them out for all of those whose blood stains the ground beneath booted feet. He wants to find Geralt and the child and wrap them in the safety of the trees that cradle him every night. 

He doesn’t. If he tries to interfere again, who knows what calamity he will cause this time, what curse he might bestow, even by accident. The same words sear themselves like a brand across his memories, etched into every thought he has and every choice he makes.

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

Another night, another nightmare. This time he dreams of Geralt and an ashen-haired child surrounded by a ring of black flames. He hears their screams, can taste their deaths on the back of his throat like belladonna petals laid on his tongue. He wakes with bile burning in his mouth and tear tracks on his cheeks, salty-sticky and fresh. His chest aches like he’s been screaming, or has breathed in ash and smoke and it has settled in his lungs. He can’t go, he tells himself. What good is a fae bard with a silver tongue who only brings about ruin wherever he goes?

He breaks too many hearts and is a curse upon the lives of mages and Witchers. He must stay here, where the only ones who hear his words are the flowers and the trees and the animals that wander through from time to time. The trill of birdsong makes him look up, and his eyes go wide as dinner plates when he sees her. 

In his little grove he’s called home, away from his court and from his Witcher, stands a woman clad in a bright dress that shifts in color as she moves. Her skin is a soft green and her eyes are a vibrant gold, the color of sunlight in the height of summer. Everything around her has burst into a lush, vibrant green and on her head she wears a crown of sage and purple aster. 

Jaskier falls to his knees and his forehead touches the ground. How had he not felt _her_ here? What has he done to earn her ire now? “Please,” he pleads. He’s not even sure what he’s pleading for. 

“I found you, little flower. But why? You could have come home. Forgotten this place and mended the bleeding heart I see behind your ribs. Come, Buttercup, let me take you home with me,” his Queen whispers, words like fresh honeycake, smooth like fine wine and so, _so_ warm. He could, he thinks. He could take her hand and leave this place. No more flowers wilting at his feet. No more thoughts of white hair and golden eyes. No more longing for a path that was not his to travel in the first place. 

But he can’t. Not yet. There is one thing he has to do first, one more Herculean task he must complete before he can leave this place. 

“I cannot, my Queen. If I stay a bit longer, will I be--” he stops, the words sticking tight in his throat. Allowed? Able? Willing? The idea of never seeing his court again aches, but he is used to pain now. There are so many things he isn’t allowed to have; what is one more? 

Her face goes soft and she cups his cheek with her hand, skin like silk against his. She smells of wildflowers and damp earth that grows good things. Of sunlight and warmth and things that should make him yearn for the realm he was forced from so many years ago. But she doesn’t smell like home, not anymore. Home now smells like horse and onions and sometimes the entrails of other creatures. It’s the scent of oils and herbs and rabbits roasted over a fire. 

He’ll never call Geralt home out loud, though. The weight of it alone would send the Witcher running for the hills. How many times did he remind Jaskier that he didn’t need anyone, let alone Jaskier? 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

“Oh, my little flower… you did not do as I bade you. You have fallen in love,” she says, sounding mournful. A fae only truly loves once, they say. No one ever speaks of what happens when that love is not returned. “Once I thought you incapable of such a thing, too caught up in your follies to carry such a burden. But I see it in you now.” His Queen strokes his jaw like he is fragile, breakable like the flower petals he is named for. “I would ask if they have earned that love, but to speak the words aloud will only bring you pain.”

“You are most merciful, my Queen,” Jaskier recites. To hear those words on someone else’s tongue would crack him right down the middle, leaving him to bleed out right here on the forest floor. “There is a task I must complete before I return.”

His Queen nods and brushes his hair from his face. Tender, like a mother, and Jaskier wants to fall into it. He has not been touched in so long. “All right, Buttercup. You have grown in your time here in the human realm, and I am so very proud of you. Go, complete your task with my blessing.” With a wave of her hand, she weaves him a crown of oak and larkspur, twined with goldenrods, and places it gently upon his head. He feels the weight of her magic on his shoulders like a warm, familiar blanket. He gasps, even as his heart clenches around the word _blessing._

Her words flow through him, warm and pulsing in the cavern behind his ribs. They echo in his ears and make his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears. _I am so very proud of you._ He wants to etch them into his skin, wear them like a brand for the world to see. In this moment, he is not a curse, or a burden. He is Buttercup, a Summer fae, who has made his queen proud.

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

With a single, warm kiss to his forehead, his Queen is gone. Left in her wake is a swath of daisies, their petals vivid white against the lush green of the forest floor. The flowers sway towards him and in that moment, hope swells and blooms inside of the place where his heart used to be. 

\--

Jaskier does not sing as he moves. His lyrics and melodies would be lost underneath the pounding of boots against the earth, the rush of blood that washes through the Continent like a swollen river. Even cloaked in his glamour, the heavy pall of the dangerous tipping of the scales that the soldiers in black represent weighs down on him. He has heard the whispers of the mage who speaks of white fire and rebirth, of a Usurper who will be the savior of them all. The words ring false, but the power of a zealot is as devastating as a wildfire. 

He stays to the trees, grounding himself with their strength and keeping him steady as he continues his search. The Continent is vast and he is but one creature, but the pulse of hope in his chest spurs him on, keeps his feet moving. The trees tell him the girl is in Brokilon, safe for now amongst the dryads, hidden from the prying, dirty eyes of the humans who hunt her. He hears nothing of Geralt, wonders if he is still alive or if he was lost in the funeral pyre of Cintra. The thought alone makes him clutch his chest, the scent of willow filling his nose. No, he tells himself. Even if Geralt never wants to see him again, he cannot fathom a world without the Witcher in it. So he breathes deeply and locks those words away, tighter than a drum, where he will never give thought to them again.

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

The wind changes, and Jaskier learns that the princess is gone, has fled the forest and is on the move again. He is at a loss, pulled in too many directions and feeling that familiar dread creeping up on him. Did he do this? Did he cause another ruin, bring about more shit being shoveled onto the people he wants to help most of all? It threatens to choke him, welling up in his throat and stealing away his breath. Columbine blooms at his feet and tangles around his legs, pulling him down to his knees, but the crown upon his head reminds him that he can do this. He is blessed by his Queen and that is enough for him to move his feet, rip the flowers by their roots and keep moving. 

He wanders, following bits of rumor and the advice of the trees, knows to keep from stepping into the faerie rings he finds. His kinfolk might help, but many of them do not involve themselves in the workings of the human realm. He would be a curiosity, a collectible to be studied and dissected and ultimately tossed to the side when the novelty wore off by those of his court, and of Winter’s. He knows, because once upon a time, he would have done the same. So he steers clear and keeps to himself. He composes snippets of melody and lets his mouth form around words he doesn’t speak aloud. Not yet. 

He is near Sodden when the dull marching of too many soldiers thunders against the earth and the tang of ozone and magic fills the air. Ripples of Chaos fill the air and he feels them down deep inside where his own magic lives. It’s pain, it’s blood, it’s an unnatural feeling when the Nilfgaardian mage weaves her spells, fueled by a fervor that Jaskier cannot begin to understand. It is not his place to intervene, he knows, but the tipping scales of Chaos have him feeling like he’s being tossed around on a ship lost at sea. 

Then he feels it. Tension mounts in the air and he scents the ozone swirled with lilac and gooseberries, cloying on his tongue, and every nerve ending in his body sears white-hot when columns of fire erupt in the sky. He’s not close enough to feel the actual flames, but his connection with the earth and living things make him feel like he’s standing right in the middle of it all. Every cry of every life snuffed out, friend or enemy, every pulse of growing things that disappears, he feels them all and it brings him to his knees. He screams until his throat tears, tastes his own blood on his lips, watches anemone spring from where the droplets spill across the ground. 

Then, silence. The world itself holds its breath and Jaskier waits with it, his arms wrapped tight around himself as his heartbeat flutters like a trapped bird inside his chest. After too much space between breaths, everything lets go and he sags to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. He lets his magic flow out of him, trying to find any spark, any sign that life might still exist. He feels the Chaos of the living mages and the way the world rights itself as best it can, getting back on its feet after such a shattering. That’s when he feels two very familiar heartbeats, one quick like a hummingbird, the other slow and steady, just on the edge of where his magic is gathering. They’re moving towards one another, like magnets, and Jaskier can feel the pull of Destiny as her will is finally imposed after being denied for so very long.

He lets out a breathy laugh, soft and near-silent, even as tears gather in his eyes. Irises bloom at his knees in a riot of purple and he manages to push a single word past his lips. “Finally.”

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

\--

He waits. As much as desperate need churns in his gut to go, go, _go,_ he knows the time isn’t right. Instead, he bides his time in the forest, singing songs out loud for the first time in far too long. He sings songs of hope, of healing, of protection and safety. He lets his glamour drop for a bit, breathing a sigh of relief as the restraints on his power and form fall away. It has been too long since he could really use his voice like this, let it pour from him like water in a river. It feels good to speak to the earth, to the plants and the trees. Oak saplings and sprigs of rosemary burst forth, and he can’t help the smile that he wears. 

Jaskier feels it the moment the world shifts, when Destiny finds her due and Geralt finally claims what is his. He hadn’t realized before now just how far the Witcher had buried himself beneath his skin, how thoroughly their threads of fate had twisted together. It steals his breath away and makes his chest ache with remembered pain and a longing need to find his beloved, though he dares not say that word aloud. He keeps it locked behind his teeth, with all the rest of the things he wishes he could say, the words he wishes he could release into the air like a flock of birds caged on his tongue. 

But there are other things to worry about right now. Even if Geralt wishes him to stay away, Jaskier knows he can’t, must keep them safe until they reach the keep. He is not a stupid man, knows the workings of Geralt’s mind near as well as he knows his own, and he knows the wolf will want to keep his charge safe in his winter den. Smart, for the keep has survived many black shadows cast upon it, and the one ruled by the false sun will be no different. It is a place where even he cannot follow, a thought which makes him swallow down the hurt that threatens to choke him. 

He’ll help them to Kaer Morhen, and then he’ll go home, back to his court and into the welcoming arms of his queen, and he will be happy, content. If he keeps repeating it in his head, in his heart, one of these days he will actually be able to believe it. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

With the full moon overhead, Jaskier decides to keep his glamour dropped as he travels, moving through the trees and underbrush with ease. The forests aid him, the terrain guides him, and he thanks them for their help. He has no intention of letting Geralt see him, not wanting to hear more of those poisoned words for simply being at his side. He is only doing as the Witcher asked, but that won’t stop him from helping them to safety. The child deserves the safety of a home and a family again, made pack by the wolves she now belongs with. 

He will give them that, and then give Geralt one last gift of what he always wanted, the blessing he asked for on the mountain. 

He finds them, eventually. He hasn’t kept track of how long he traveled, how many miles he put on the soles of his feet. He had walked all that and more on his adventures with Geralt, so what was a bit more to find him again? They’re camped underneath a small copse of trees, and as relieved as he is to see the girl in one piece, it is Geralt who makes his heart both flutter and sink like a stone. His magic keeps him hidden, blending in with the trees and plants as he watches them from above.

Geralt is tending to his swords and the girl is staring into the fire, both of them silent and still like marble statues. They’re both pale and drawn and Jaskier’s heart aches to be there to comfort them both. He’d brew a tea with valerian and catnip and chamomile, soothe them both into soft, dreamless sleep so that they both find peace. But he can’t. 

Instead, he stands guard. He sees how Geralt is favoring his left side, most likely from an injury he refuses to treat, like the stubborn bull he is. He smells the tang of salt in the air when the girl lays on her bedroll and pretends to sleep, her small body quaking with held-in sobs. He even steals a moment to talk to Roach, who whinnies happily and proceeds to tell him about what he’s missed since he’s been away, weaving edelweiss and thyme into her mane. Hearing her talk of Geralt’s silence and rigidity makes his heart clench beneath his ribs, but he doesn’t dare hope it means more. With one last glance at his sleeping charges, he steals away into the night to hide amongst the trees once more.

Over the next few days, he continues to watch. Geralt and the child lack the rhythm he and Jaskier had, and it is painfully obvious to Jaskier that neither of them knows what to do with the other. Destiny might have bound them together with a thread, but she didn’t do them any favors with how to exist around the other. Both of them are quiet, wearing different shrouds of grief, and they don’t quite fit together, not yet. They will, Jaskier is sure of it. Until then, he watches the two of them orbit the other, drawn together but not quite sure where to land. Geralt grunts and the child shrugs, until finally she notices the sprigs in Roach’s mane, where Jaskier wove blessings for her the night before.

“Geralt? What is this?” she asks, voice sweet and lilting. Curiosity sounds good on her, so much better than the smell of her tears and the soft sound of her sadness he hears each night. 

At first, the Witcher doesn’t answer, until the child asks again. With a sigh, he leans close and inspects the greenery in Roach’s hair. For one, heart-stopping moment, Jaskier wonders if Geralt will scent him, will spread out his senses and hear the eager beating of his heart even hidden as he is. “Hmm,” is all he says, but he’s looking around, one hand clenched tight around his medallion. “Something is tailing us.” 

Jaskier’s breath lodges in his throat and he feels his entire body start to tremble with fear. He keeps a tight hold on his magic and his emotions, so no flowers rain down like they want to, but it is a near thing. Of course Geralt would assume the worst, would immediately think that whatever wove magic over them would be malevolent. It is all he knows, and Jaskier can’t even find it in his heart to be angry about it. 

“Well, I think whatever it is, it’s trying to help us,” the girl says with a sniff, plucking one of the sprigs of thyme from Roach’s mane. “Is this poisonous?” 

Geralt grunts, but finally replies, “No, but that doesn’t mean whatever it is isn’t hunting us. We’re not safe until we reach Kaer Morhen. We should keep moving.” He clicks his tongue and they set off again, the Witcher stubbornly looking forward with his mouth turned down. He cannot see the way his charge frowns up at him, or how she rolls the sprig of thyme between her fingers, like it brings her comfort.

Good. 

Once, Jaskier could tell what Geralt was thinking by the sound of his voice, by the minute shifts of the corners of his mouth. Now, the Witcher is like a wall, unmoving and stiff, keeping everything outside and letting nothing in. He guards his heart and his mind like a dragon wrapped around a hoard of gold, and Jaskier longs to smooth out the harsh lines of his face. 

That night is the first night Jaskier hears the girl cry out in her sleep. Her screams echo through the trees, shaking the leaves and making the branches quiver with the depth of her anguish. He knows what he sees, remembers the smell of Cintra rotting on the wind. Geralt goes to her, shakes her awake, but it doesn’t stop the flood of tears that track down her pale skin, nor does it soothe the hummingbird-quick beat of her heart. Geralt looks just as lost as he does, jerkily reaching out for her like he’s not sure if he should touch, or if he’s even allowed to. He murmurs soft things that Jaskier can’t hear, but the girl doesn’t quiet for a long time. 

Eventually, Geralt goes back to his bedroll and she to hers, and the night grows quiet again. He knows he shouldn’t, but Jaskier’s heart hurts for her, aches to go and gather her in his arms and sing her to sleep. She is not a child, not anymore, but that doesn’t change that he wants to cradle her and keep her safe in the circle of his wings. So he lets his magic reach out and wash over her, scented with sweet basil and chamomile to ease her into dreams of better things. He whispers songs to her, sweet lullabies that make the world around her go soft and pillow-like. He watches her small body relax, hears the whisper of her gentle breaths and knows he has warded off the nightmares for the time being. 

He turns to do the same for the Witcher, but he remembers the mountain, how his blessings will be received. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

So, he turns away and returns to his post, checking over his charges one last time before he lets himself drift into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Part II

Jaskier wonders how long it will take before he’s caught. He can’t help himself, leaving little sprigs of flowers near the girl’s head at night, singing to her softly when her nightmares cause her to thrash and scream. Each time the air vibrates, Jaskier rushes to her side to soothe her back into sweeter dreams. He weaves magic over Geralt too, one part to help the Witcher rest, and the other to keep himself from being discovered. The words beat against the inside of Jaskier’s head and heart every time he does, but it’s for the girl. This soft, sweet, fierce little lion cub who never asked for her role in Destiny’s cruel games. 

But he knows it can’t last. 

It happens one day when he’s sitting by a brook, strumming his lute and singing of blue skies and fair weather, of princesses and knights on an adventure. The flowers dance and sway at his feet, the sunshine pulsing in soft, buttery ripples in the too-green grass. Mushrooms spring up in an almost-perfect ring, and Jaskier is mindful to keep his feet from entering; who knows who’s listening on the other side of it? 

He’s so caught up that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, doesn’t feel the way the forest shrinks back as a silver blade is unsheathed and arcing through the air. It’s only thanks to the fluttering of his wings and the grace of his magic that he dances out of the way, just in time to see furious golden eyes and a downturned frown so close, too close. “Who the fuck are you and why do you have _that face_?” an all too-familiar voice snarls as the Witcher prepares another strike. 

From behind him, he can hear the girl scream, bits of Chaos and magic older than time itself woven through, enough to make both of them waver on their feet. “Stop! He’s not going to hurt us!” she pleads, before rushing forward and standing in front of Jaskier. For a moment, he sees her grandmother in the jut of her chin, the steel in her spine as she glares up at Geralt. “I order you to stop.”

Geralt growls under his breath, but his sword stays high in the air. “Fiona, I told you to stay behind me. You don’t know what that creature is.”

“He sings to me to help me sleep! He leaves me bundles of daisies and lemon balm for me to find in the morning! You’re not going to hurt him, or I’ll scream so loud you’ll be blasted into the forest!” the girl says with all the fierceness of the Lion Cub of Cintra. Jaskier has been very careful not to think of her true name, not say it out loud, for he never knows what sort of ears might be listening. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. And what are names but more words that can be spoken, used, controlled? 

Geralt looks at Jaskier again, eyes blazing, molten gold and cold as a winter’s chill at the same time. The look in them cracks Jaskier’s chest down the middle and he feels hollow again. “You’re the one that’s been following us? And you didn’t answer me before. What are you and why do you look like--” Geralt chokes on the last word sticking in his throat, and Jaskier watches him swallow around it. 

Jaskier takes one long, slow breath. He touches the crown on his forehead and lets his magic ground him, roots of his magic spreading out like those of the oak tree. “Because I am. I’m the same, and I’m not. I’m fae, Geralt, and always have been. I was human, more or less, for a while but… my magic came back to me,” he says, though he doesn’t explain how or why. Those words he keeps locked inside his heart, deep down where he can’t give voice to them or give them any more power over him. He doesn’t believe Geralt would care, anyway. “I felt it when you two came together in the forest, when the attack on Sodden happened. The trees tell where Nilfgaard marches next, so I stayed close to help however I could.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow and Jaskier can feel that he doesn’t believe him. Why should he? “For twenty years you… what, pretended to be a human? You’ve lied to me all this time?” 

If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would think Geralt sounded hurt. “Fae can’t lie, Geralt,” he replies at first, using the double speak his people are so known for. He hates it, hates playing games with the things he says, talking out of both sides of his mouth in an attempt to trick. “Being human was a punishment from my queen, so she wrapped my tongue in belladonna and fern to keep my secret there and banished me from my court.” He clutches at his shirt and looks away. The soft scent of zinnias and red carnations waft up from where they grow at his feet and the cub’s, who gasps in delight. 

“You… you grow flowers?” she asks, child-like awe in her voice as she bends down to pick one of the carnations. “The bundles you left me, those were yours?” She plucks the bloom up by the roots and smells it, her eyes closing and Jaskier watches as the red drains from it, leaving a pure white flower clutched in her fingertips. “Thank you, Jaskier. You don’t know how much they meant to me.”

Jaskier’s heart overflows and he wraps her in his arms, pressing his nose into her hair and cradling her close. He ignores Geralt in favor of holding her as they sink to the ground, the blossoms rising to meet them as they explode into a sea of white carnations and spring crocus. “Oh, child, I will keep you safe. Geralt and I will deliver you to the wolf den and there you will be with your pack.” He blinks and looks up at the Witcher, who is staring with his sword dropped to his side. “If...if that’s all right?” 

Geralt nods blankly, staring at the sea of flowers that surrounds the three of them. One hand is clutching his medallion and the other is still held tight on his sword. He looks… lost. “Jaskier, this is...is this why you always knew the herbs I needed and how to find them?”

“Of course. If I had my magic before, I would have--” Jaskier starts to say, but buttons his lips up before the words can pass between them. Gifts and blessings are intertwined for his people, and he knows his blessings, his gifts, would be nothing more than burdens. He cannot give voice to it, as much as he wants to tell Geralt of how he would never want for anything, for he could have whatever he wanted as long as Jaskier’s magic was strong. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

And Jaskier would be wise to not give his away to the Witcher who doesn’t want it.

“Do you know my name?” the girl asks, looking up at him with too-bright eyes that are green as the forest around them. “I don’t think I’ve told you, I’m--”

Jaskier presses a finger to her lips and quiets her. “I know your name, sweetling. I have known it since I sang at the banquet celebrating your birth. But names have power and I dare not speak yours aloud, in case someone should hear.” He doesn’t tell her of the ears that could be listening, of the bootfalls that march closer to her each passing day. She is safe here, with Geralt’s swords and his magic. The child has tasted too much loss in her life; she doesn’t need to hear of the destructive path being wrought to get to her. 

“You’ve said my name out loud since… since we found you,” he hears Geralt say.

Jaskier bites his lip and looks somewhere near Geralt’s knees, not wanting to see whatever is churning in the Witcher’s eyes. Meeting them reminds him of the mountain. “So I have. I’m sorry, I won’t say it anymore.” _You won’t let me keep it,_ he thinks to himself, his tongue too thick in his mouth to speak. _You won’t let me guard it on my tongue and in my heart, not like she will._ It isn’t his to protect and his chest clenches, his heart wilting like the flowers beneath his feet. 

“That’s not... damn it, Jaskier, that’s not what I meant. I don’t understand how your magic works or why you’re doing this,” Geralt bites out, fists clenched at his side. The white-hot brightness of his temper makes the air simmer and Jaskier shrinks back away from it. He braces himself against the flow of words he’s sure are coming, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the child at his side. But just as soon as it flared, the fire goes out and Geralt speaks again. He sounds weary, guarded. “Jaskier, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

But he already has. The weight of his words is like a noose around Jaskier’s neck, heavy like a stone all the way down to the center of him. Instead, Jaskier says, “I know. It’s just been a while and I’ve been on my own. I’ll get used to it again, I promise.” Fae can’t lie, but the words he speaks taste of omission and side-stepping truth. It will have to do for now. 

The walk back to their camp is silent, still like the grave. The girl stays close to his side and he welcomes it, soaking in her touch like a flower to the sun. He can feel her magic against his own, but it flows together, and briefly he wonders if she can feel it too. He’ll teach her, he thinks, show her how to use her magic in the ways he knows how. There will be blanks to fill, he knows, and who will be best at filling them, but he can’t bring himself to think of _her_ right now. 

Geralt plods belong behind them, footsteps loud in the surrounding quiet. The Witcher can be light on his feet when he wants to, but these are deliberate, pointed, too-loud and angry. Is Geralt angry that Jaskier is holding his Child Surprise? Maybe it’s that Jaskier never told him about his fae heritage, but his tongue was quite literally tied, bound with magic that took Jaskier days to wash away the taste of. So many times he wanted to tell Geralt, but his jaw would lock and the taste of cyclamen would drop down his throat, a reminder of his punishment. Whatever it is, Jaskier is too tired to stand in the face of Geralt’s fever-bright rage a second time this evening. 

The girl settles on her bedroll and Geralt starts cooking rabbits over the fire. The night is clear and the symphony of cicadas and crickets fills the air around them, making Jaskier want to hum along. He reaches for his lute, stops only when he hears a gruff, “You still play?” 

“Of course. I was a bard long before I was a human, Geralt. I was called to play in many a faerie court for Midsummer celebrations, I’ll have you know,” he says with a jaunty tone, even as his memories whisper the words _fillingless pie_ and _incessant noise_ at him. 

“Not surprised at all,” Geralt offers quietly, and Jaskier isn’t quite sure he heard correctly. “Will you play tonight? For us? Ciri would like it.” 

Jaskier freezes and pauses for a heartbeat or two. Perhaps his ears aren’t working quite right, maybe somewhere one of his kin has played a trick or cast a glamour over themselves. Surely he didn’t just hear Geralt ask for him to play? “I suppose I could. Your medallion will hum, though. I can’t quite keep all of the magic out of my voice anymore,” he says lamely, grappling for an excuse. He’s not sure he’s strong enough to hear Geralt insult his voice, is afraid his heart will crumble in his chest just as he can feel it start to knit together again. 

Geralt’s shoulders relax a little. “It’ll be fine,” is all he replies. 

The girl joins in and claps her hands excitedly. “Oh please! I can’t wait to hear you sing up close! I thought for so long that I was just dreaming. Will you sing the coin song for us?” 

Jaskier and Geralt both go rigid. Jaskier hasn’t sung that song since the mountain, and it’s clear by the Witcher’s body language that he doesn’t want to hear it again. Of course he doesn’t. It probably reminds him of the too many years they traveled together, of all the silly little songs he wrote that taste like ash in his mouth. “How about I sing you a couple of songs from my time at court? My queen would be pleased to hear that I am singing them again, and it’ll be a good practice for when I return.”

“Return? You’re going back?” 

Jaskier looks up and Geralt is frowning, eyebrows knit together in a scowl and his hand is wrapped so tight around the pommel of his sword that the veins of his hands are standing out. “Yes? Eventually. Not until I see you both back to your den safely.” Confusion ripples through him. Why would it matter? “I’m only giving you what you asked for, Geralt.”

Golden eyes go wide and Geralt lets out a growl, getting to his feet and stomping off towards the woods. Jaskier lets his magic flow out and asks the forest to keep the Witcher safe, even though it’s clear he wants to be as far away from Jaskier as possible. Tears gather in his eyes and a blanket of yellow chrysanthemums spring up underneath where he and the cub are sitting. 

This time, it’s the girl who pulls him into her arms and shushes him. “He doesn’t want you to leave. I feel it. I see the way he looks at you,” she says, but her words do nothing to soothe the ache in his chest, the hollow space opening up behind his ribs. She means well, but she doesn’t know how the words are still wedged into the recesses of his heart. 

“Oh, sweetling, I wish that were true. You see, Geralt has made it quite plain to me that he doesn’t want me, that I am nothing but a burden. Once I’m gone, I promise I will do my best to come and see you. Ever heard of a faerie ring?” She shakes her head, still frowning at him. In that moment, she looks so much like Geralt that he fights down the instinct to flinch away. She is the cub, not the wolf, he reminds himself. “It’s a special ring of mushrooms that grow in forests like this one. The grass inside is always emerald green and tastes of magic. When your powers grow, you’ll be able to feel it, the way the magic will make your fingertips tingle. But you must never step in one, even by accident. Fae love to play tricks, and they love to try new pranks out on uninvited guests.” 

He continues to talk, even as they eat the dinner that Geralt left on the fire for them. He tells her of the magic he knows, feeling a soft pulse in his chest as he gives her the gift of his knowledge. He’s careful not to reveal too many secrets, but the way her eyes go wide when he coaxes honeysuckle and white jasmine to bloom makes his heart feel bright and full. He threads the blossoms in her hair and croons at her, words weaving a blessing over this child that can feel himself falling in love with. 

After a while, her eyelids droop and he sings her to sleep, a lullaby that he pulls from his heart, just for her. The turmoil in her body is gone for the time being, chased away by his spell and the soft sound of his voice as he sings. He will protect this girl with his life, for as long as he can.  
Which is why it breaks his heart all over again that he will have to leave her one day. Until then, he will guide her and love her, just as he did Geralt so many years before. 

He lays down beside her, dozing, and goes still when he hears Geralt come back to the campsite. He smells of blood, and a tinge of sadness, underneath the hot, molten smell of anger that sticks to him. Jaskier still isn’t sure what he did to make Geralt so upset, but he isn’t sure he wants to ask and have Geralt tell him, either. He doesn’t need more angry words spat at him, doesn’t want to hear Geralt tell him that he’s not wanted. So he evens his breathing out and lets Geralt stew on the other side of the fire, and forces himself to sleep. 

Things will be better in the morning, he hopes.

\--

Jaskier does his best to steer clear of Geralt as they journey on, only speaking to him when the Witcher speaks first, which isn’t often. Instead, he fills the silence between them with his conversations about magic and nature with the cub. Every day he weaves more blessings into her ash-blonde hair and sings little tunes and tells little stories that keep her entertained as they travel. They camp outside more often than not, which suits Jaskier just fine. He hates the shadow that crosses Geralt’s face when he slips his glamour on, despises the way the Witcher looks away when Jaskier the bard appears.

It sits heavy like a stone in Jaskier’s belly, and he tries his best to will it away with performing when they’re forced into an inn. With his glamour on, his magic is thinner, but he can still drink in the stomps of boots and smiles from the patrons he entertains. He can lose himself in the drumbeats of their hearts and the way his words taste coming out of their mouths. Even the girl joins in, when Geralt lets her stay down in the tavern area. Jaskier glamours her own features a bit, giving her the appearance of dishwater blonde hair and dull blue eyes instead of her own distinct green ones. 

Geralt stands out, of course, but he didn’t ask for Jaskier to weave his magic over him as well, so Jaskier doesn’t offer. There’s only one person allowed to cast spells and weave words over Geralt, and Jaskier is not her. So he leaves it be.

They’re almost over the border into Kaedwen, drawing closer to the Blue Mountains where the wolf’s den is hidden. Jaskier feels the ticking of the clock as they get closer, knowing that soon he will have to leave behind the darling girl who’s like a balm for his broken heart. He hears her crying that night, but her tears don’t smell of nightmares. He goes to her, because of course he does, and gathers her into his arms on the small, rickety bed. “What troubles you, sweetling?” he asks in a whisper. He knows Geralt can hear them, but he hopes the Witcher is deep enough in meditation that he’ll ignore them. 

“You’re going to leave, just like everyone else does,” she says between sniffles. She clings to him, digging her nails into his flesh like she’s afraid he’ll disappear in a puff of smoke. “I don’t know what Geralt said to make you want to go away, but _I_ want you to stay with me always.” 

Jaskier bites his lip and tastes blood on his tongue, trying to hold back all the words that want to spill from his mouth. He doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want to taint what she has with Geralt with the words he’s got trapped inside his chest. He sees how good they are together, when they practice with swords or when she peppers the Witcher with a thousand questions. He handles her with a grace unlike Jaskier has ever seen, one he never would have extended towards the mortal bard, but he can’t bring himself to be sad about it. It means his darling girl and the Witcher he can’t stop loving will care for one other long after he’s gone. “I know, sweetling, but I can’t stay. It’s very complicated, but I promise I’ll visit, when I can. Who knows, perhaps you could join me at my court some day!” 

The girl doesn’t look convinced, her eyes welling up even further. “Please, Jaskier, don’t go,” she pleads again, the well of sadness echoing in her voice cracks his chest wide open. 

Instead of speaking, he begins to hum a Cintran lullaby, one he’s sure her mother would have sung to her when she was small and Pavetta was still alive. The words, he keeps to himself, but they aren’t needed, not with the tinge of magic he threads through his voice. He feels her body sag against him, her eyelids drooping from exhaustion and his magic. It is a coward’s way out, he knows, but he can’t bear the sight of more tears shed for him. The pull to stay is great, but he also knows that he can’t, not while the mountain looms like a shadow over his shoulder. 

His cub falls asleep in his arms and he holds her there, cradling her smaller body against his own to drink up the feeling before it’s gone. If she weren’t so intrinsically tied to Geralt, their destinies woven together so tightly, he would take her with him. She’d be safe in the fae realm, away from humans and their ever-marching need to destroy themselves and everything else that has the misfortune to stand in their way. 

Lost in his thoughts, he startles when he hears Geralt speak. “Why are you so intent on leaving? Do you really hate it here with us that much?” His words are sharp, like a knife-point, and Jaskier wonders how the blood tastes in Geralt’s mouth from them. 

“I don’t wish to be a burden on you any longer than I have to. You made it quite clear to me that my presence was a nuisance, and I’m merely giving you what you asked for. One last blessing to bestow before I take myself off your hands forever,” Jaskier replies, words dripping with poison, like the flower he’s named for. It hurts, pushing them out, releasing the words he’s held inside the cavern of his chest for so long. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

Geralt takes in a sharp breath and there’s a beat of heavy silence between them, thick and stifling. “I didn’t mean that, when I said it,” the Witcher whispers, and the silence shatters like glass across the floor. Jaskier’s heart pounds in his ears and there’s something welling up in his chest. He’s just not sure if it’s hope or anger. “I was angry, hurt, and lashed out at you. It was unfair.” 

“Words carry weight, Geralt. Doubly so for me, as I am fae and wordcraft is our lifeblood. The things you say matter, out of anger or fear or joy or lust. You of all people should know that,” Jaskier whispers back. His pulse quickens and he can feel the pieces of his broken heart shifting inside of him. 

There’s rustling from the other side of the room, and suddenly Geralt is beside the bed, kneeling on the floor. His amber eyes glow in the low candlelight, and Jaskier can see the lines etched into the Witcher’s skin, from age and the Path and everything else. “Is that why you stopped speaking to me? Why you don’t weave flowers in my hair when you think I’m not paying attention? You used to, and you used to sing to yourself while you did it,” Geralt says, voice cracking. “Is that why you say my name out loud but you won’t say hers?” 

Too many emotions threaten to drown Jaskier in that moment. Sadness, anger, love, forgiveness, and the tiniest thread of hatred churn in his gut as he scrambles to find what exactly he wants to say. “Not speaking her name is practical. With my magic, you never know who’s ears are listening and I’d rather not risk it.” He takes a deep breath, meeting Geralt’s eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. “As for you... you cut me so deep, hurt me so truly, that you lifted the binding on my magic that my Queen had placed on me so long ago. I carried those words you said with me for so long, and it wasn’t just those. Too many times you’d treat me like a burden, like a bother, and all I wanted was to love you.”

“How could you love me, Jaskier? I’m a Witcher, and you’re…you hop from bed to bed, falling in love with everyone you’ve ever met. You wander off and leave every chance you get, like you can’t wait to get away,” the Witcher argues, but they both can feel the way he’s grasping for something, anything to stop himself from saying what he really wants to. “I can’t give you the life or the love you deserve.” 

Jaskier shakes his head, reaching out and dragging his fingers along Geralt’s jawline, and he doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s shivers at the touch. “Who are you to decide what kind of life I deserve, hmm? I was quite content to follow you around, singing your praises and loving you. As for the others, is it so hard to believe that they were passing fancies to amuse me while I waited for what I really wanted? Geralt, I have loved you for twenty years, and if you would let me, I would love you for a thousand more, until my last breath leaves my body and the earth takes me back.” He licks his lips and takes a shuddering breath, scenting daisies on the wind. He’s sure that the road would be carpeted with them, if he looked outside.

Geralt’s face does something very complicated, but settles into a soft expression Jaskier has only seen him give the cub when she’s not looking. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I hurt you with my words, and I’m sorry that I didn’t realize--”

Jaskier silences him with a finger over his lips. “Show me, Geralt. Show me that you mean that, and then tell me. I accept your apology, but I haven’t forgiven you quite yet. But in return, I’ll stop withholding my blessings from you. I will sing your songs and I will stay, but only if you promise to show me that you mean it. Even if you decide you don’t love me like I love you, we can part ways as friends,” he says, feeling his magic start to waver in the air. Fae love a good bargain, a promise, something to bind with words and tangle up in complicated footnotes. But he won’t do that, not Geralt. Not until he’s sure Geralt even _wants_ it. 

Another pause passes between them, but this one feels different, like the air is charged with lightning and expectation. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to come with us, stay with me at the keep, teach Fiona your magic,” Geralt says, words spilling out in a rush. “I don’t know if I can take losing you again.”

A dark, cruel part of him, cold as a winter’s chill, whispers to blame him, to say something about how Geralt wouldn’t have lost him if he hadn’t pushed so hard, but Jaskier quiets it. Here, in this moment, they both _know._ He won’t give voice to it, not when Geralt is pressed close and Jaskier can smell the regret, the self-loathing of the mistake the Witcher made rolling off of him. So he pulls Geralt’s head into his lap, like he’s done with the cub so many nights, and starts to hum. He sifts his fingers through moon-bright hair and watches as Geralt’s eyes slip closed, his body going soft and supple underneath Jaskier’s touch. The sour tang of sadness shifts into something softer, almost sweet, which he’s startled to realize is the scent of Geralt’s relaxation and contentment. 

He feels his heart, still a bit crumbled in his chest, start to swell with love and affection for the Witcher. It’s dangerous, he knows, but while Geralt is relaxed under his touch, he can’t give himself a reason not to enjoy it. Even if it changes with the coming sunrise, that this conversation was some kind of fever dream, he’ll savor it and hold it close to his chest.


	3. Part III

The seasons begin to change as they make it further into Kaedwen, and so does the air around them. Geralt is trying, and so is Jaskier, and their cub is delighted by it. Geralt lets him weave chains of morning glories and tarragon and loop them around his neck, the skin around his eyes crinkling up in a semblance of a smile. He listens when Jaskier relays the rumors the trees whisper as they move, and he offers stories when Jaskier asks. Once or twice, Jaskier catches the Witcher paying attention to his lessons with their cub. It makes him feel warm, sets his blood alight, and he can feel his heart slowly rebuilding itself piece by piece.

In turn, he tries just as hard. He offers Geralt blessings of protection, tucking tokens of sweet william and sage into his armor before he goes off to hunt. He grows herbs to keep Geralt’s alchemy stores full for his potions and decoctions. And when they stop in villages and hamlets, he sings songs and earns coin they’ll need, now that civilization is starting to get thinner and thinner as they near the mountains. 

The cub comments on it one night, when Geralt is off hunting and Jaskier is strumming his lute, humming under his breath in a way that makes the fire crackle merrily and the scent of white jasmine fill the air. “I’m proud of you both,” she says, catching him off guard. His confusion must show on his face, because she giggles and adds, “It’s like watching a bridge being built, from both sides. I’m excited to see you two meet in the middle.” 

Her words stay with him for the rest of the night. He mulls them over, quiet, ignoring the concerned look that Geralt sends him as they bed down and the fire burns low. “Jaskier?” he asks, voice soft and low so as not to wake their sleeping girl. 

He doesn’t know how to say it, not yet. As much of a wordsmith as he is, he’s grasping at straws for these. He’s not sure he’s ready to give it voice, speak what is steadily building in his mind and heart. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this.

Finally, he says, “I’m all right. Just thinking. Give me time?” 

Geralt pauses, but then nods before he slips into his bedroll, pressed as close as he can with their cub between them. The place inside of him that’s been empty for so long fills up, just a little, at the picture they must paint under the bright of the moon. A song begins to drift through Jaskier’s mind as he lays there, listening to the soft sound of his two favorite people breathing in their sleep. He hums a lullaby, loud enough for both of them, to keep their dreams sweet and their rest deep. Eventually even he succumbs to the pull of the night and he drifts off, dreaming of the melody that is slowly building in his soul.

It isn’t until two days later, when they’re stopped at a stream for a break before they press on into the mountains, that Jaskier addresses it. The words feel like sores in his mouth, niggling at him, even as the familiar fear of being rejected washes over him. He needs to say them, he knows, needs to give voice to them before they wither like flowers in a winter chill inside his heart. “Geralt? I have something to say to you.” 

Geralt goes rigid, his face purposefully blank as he lets out an affirmative grunt. He’s been speaking so much more that it jars Jaskier just a bit to hear him sound so much like he did before the mountain. 

He takes a step closer, close enough to feel the heat of the Witcher’s body, the familiar scent of leather and horse a comfort as he forces his tongue to loosen from where it’s tied behind his teeth. “I just wanted to tell you, I forgive you. I also wish to say that, if the offer is still open, I’d like to come with you to your keep. I’ll send word to my queen and… I’ll stay.” _With you_ , he doesn’t say, unable to make his mouth form the words. 

A beat, too many spaces between heartbeats, and Jaskier starts to wish he could pull them back, stuff the words back inside his mouth and swallow them down into the hollow pit growing in his belly. But then he finds himself wrapped up in a hug he didn’t expect, held so tightly that the air is pushed from his lungs. “Thank you,” Geralt whispers into his hair, sending shivers up his spine at the deep well of relief he hears there. 

It takes Jaskier an extra moment or two to return the embrace, holding on like he’s afraid Geralt will disappear in his arms if he lets go. A veritable sea of sweet pea flowers blossoms beneath where they’re standing together, the air thick with the smell of them. He feels more than hears the huff of laughter Geralt lets out, pressed as tight to his chest as he is, along with the soft humming of his medallion.

“It’ll take me forever to get used to that,” Geralt mutters, but he doesn’t let go. 

“Is it… bad?” Jaskier hedges. This thing between them still feels soft around the edges, tender like a bruise that’s halfway to healing. The brand of those awful words on his heart is slowly fading, but the scars will remain for some time. 

Geralt pulls back just enough to cup his cheek, the leather of his gloves butter soft against Jaskier’s skin. For a heartstopping moment, Jaskier wonders if he’s going to lean in, but instead Geralt says, “Not at all. It suits you.” 

Jaskier feels like he could fly. Even under his glamour, he feels the beat of his wings, the way his magic swirls inside of him like the beating wings of a thousand butterflies. More pieces of his broken heart shift, reshape, slowly building into something whole and hale again.

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

Before Jaskier can reply, the moment is broken by the bell-sweet laugh of their cub behind them. “I knew it!” she calls in delight, twirling in a circle around them. The sway of her skirts looks like soft petals as she dances and hugs them both. “I’m so glad. I was hoping you’d make up.”

Jaskier pets her hair, winding yellow tulips in as he passes his fingers through the soft tresses. Later, he’ll braid it for her, tie his flower blessings in the strands to keep his sweet cub safe and happy. “Thank you, sweetling. Where would we be without you?” He means it, pushing the faintest touch of his magic into his words. She is a gift, a treasure to be guarded amongst the fierce wolf pack and with the blessing of Jaskier’s magic. “Now, I think we’ve taken long enough, because I’m as eager as you are to see the den of the wolves.” 

She laughs again, sun-bright and beautiful, taking his hand and twining their fingers together. “Then let’s go, slowpokes!”

When Jaskier looks back, tugged along by their cub, he sees Geralt looking at the two of them with soft golden eyes and a small, sweet smile that he’s never seen before. He looks… besotted, which makes Jaskier’s heart kick up hummingbird-quick in his chest. How long has he yearned to see a look like that from the Witcher cast in his direction, one that would make his cheeks heat and his blood fizz in his veins? It must show on his face, because Geralt meets his eyes without hesitation and simply says, “When we reach the keep, we’ll talk further.” 

A tiny seedling of hope begins to grow in his chest, unfurling in the space left by his broken heart that’s slowly piecing back together. Reaching the keep can’t come soon enough.

\--

The trail is brutal, especially with the cold starting to crowd in around them. Jaskier’s magic starts to grow thinner, weaker, as they get further into the realm where Winter rules. It’s been so long that he’s forgotten the way it feels when cold creeps in and his magic curls up in frost like so many of the living things he’s tied to. It’s the natural order, Summer and Winter’s constant waltz through the times of the year, but it hits him hard after several decades of not feeling the bite in his bones. 

Geralt wraps a fur around both of them as Jaskier keeps their cub huddled tight to his shivering body. They’re camped in a cave, the last stop before they reach the keep, but the thought isn’t as comforting as perhaps it should be. The cold aches deep inside of him and he can feel the hold on his glamour start to slip. “Jaskier? What’s wrong?” the Witcher asks, frowning as his eyes rove across his face. “Are you injured?”

The girl lets out a little whine at that, but Jaskier shushes her and holds her closer. “No, dear heart. It’s just cold. I am a creature of Summer, and the power of Winter is strong here. I will be alright once we reach your den. Think of a flower in the snow, that’s all,” he explains as brightly as he can manage, but he’s startled when the cub lets out another sound that’s echoed by Geralt. It’s the cry of a wolf in pain.

“Are you going to shrivel, Jaskier?” she asks, voice thick with tears. Her cold fingers feel like pinpricks against his skin, making him want to hiss and draw away, but this is his cub. “Do Summer fae die in the winter?” 

Jaskier croons at her and kisses her forehead. “No, sweetling. My magic will just be spread thin here. I cannot maintain my glamour for much longer; it’ll start to drain me soon, and I won’t be able to give you more flowers or blessings until we reach the keep. Don’t worry, my love.” 

Geralt huffs, drawing Jaskier’ attention upwards. “You don’t have to maintain it around us, Jaskier. We know what you are and we… don’t want you to hurt yourself. We’re not near humans anymore,” he says, looking away. The faintest curl of pink blooms on the shells of his ears, and Jaskier is beyond delighted by how sweet it makes him look, how _thoughtful_ he’s being. 

“All right, my loves, you’ve convinced me. Forgive me an old habit.” Like letting out a deep sigh, Jaskier feels his glamour melt away, his wings fluttering underneath the heavy fur that’s draped across them both. There’s a moment of fear that curls in his belly, how otherworldly he knows he looks, but their cub’s eyes are shining and Geralt looks... pleased, almost. A hot flare of something else replaces the fear at the appreciative look he’s getting, something he never thought he would ever see directed at _him._

“Jaskier, you’re gorgeous! I’ve never seen your wings and horns up close. May I touch them?” she asks, eyes wide and glowing with wonder. He nods and he ducks his head so that she can run her fingers gently over the rough bone. It’s a strange sensation, the delicate pads of her fingertips gliding across his horns, but not unpleasant. 

When she goes to touch his wings, he says, “Gently, please. They’re sensitive.” Her touch is barely there, and his wings flutter under the gentle ministrations. 

The cub cocks her head and smiles up at him as she traces along the delicate edge of his outer wings. “They’re like butterfly wings. Can… can you fly?” 

“Of course. Perhaps once we’re safely inside the keep, I’ll show you,” Jaskier promises, watching her eyes light up once again. Here, in the snow, his wings would shrivel and curl in on themselves in the cold and the wet, so unlike the summer dew that glistens off them when he’s home. He tucks himself back under the fur and pulls her close to him. 

Geralt has been quiet the entire time, golden eyes soft but never leaving him. The weight of his gaze is heavy, but Jaskier can’t quite figure out why. “I know it’s strange for you, I’m sure. I don’t look much like your bard anymore, do I?” he tries to tease, but even he can hear the tinge of fear that rings through his words. Jaskier the bard is the mask, now, the skin he wears when he dresses up to play pretend. Just because he’s not a monster in the traditional sense doesn’t mean Geralt has to like how _different_ he looks. 

“Hmm, no, not really,” Geralt replies, rubbing his chin and a small smile curling on his mouth. “But I think this suits you more. You look as enchanting as you sound, now.” 

Jaskier’s face goes hot and pleasure curls in his gut, a warmth that seeps through his veins and settles into the bottom of his stomach. It’s enough to start to fill the pit that the words _fillingless pie_ left there for so long. “Do you mean that?” he asks shyly, ducking his head and looking up at Geralt through his eyelashes. He’s not usually this coy, not with Geralt, not anymore, but it feels… right. 

Geralt hums and reaches out to touch, gently lifting Jaskier’s chin so that their eyes meet, molten gold boring into cornflower blue. “Yes,” is all he says. For a single beat of Jaskier’s heart, he’s sure that the Witcher is going to lean in and kiss him, but Geralt draws back with a small shake of his head. “The keep,” he reminds Jaskier in a soft voice. He presses the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s lips just once before letting go. A silent promise, one where words aren’t even needed. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. But so do actions and thoughts put into motion, in their own way. Jaskier feels the whisper of that promise against his skin and he lets out a sigh. 

The moment breaks and Geralt resumes making camp for the three of them, starting a fire and using some of their trail rations to make a dinner that’s suitable. One more night and they’ll be safe and warm in the den of the wolves. “Tell us about the keep?” their cub asks, resting her head on her knees. Jaskier is hungry to know as well, curiosity and nerves swirling inside his belly. He isn’t sure what to expect, especially now that his magic has returned and he’s not far from some of the creatures that Witchers hunt. Twenty-odd years he’s hoped for this, but now that it’s here, he’s not entirely sure what he should be feeling. 

At first, Geralt silently continues chopping the cheese and hard meat, but after a moment he begins to speak. He weaves stories from his time at the keep, telling them of his brothers, of Vesemir and what to expect when they get to the keep. Words upon words roll out of his mouth in his usual gruff, low tone, but Jaskier drinks them up like the finest wine. The waves of contentment in his scent are obvious, his entire body starting to relax the closer they get to his winter den. Jaskier likes it very, very much.

That night, Jaskier sings a new song to lull them to sleep, one filled with tales of brave wolves and walls of stone, of winter dens and the pull of pack. Their cub drops off halfway through, but Jaskier watches Geralt watching him, eyes luminous in the light from their campfire. It makes him feel hot all over, pinned beneath the molten gold of his Witcher’s stare. When he’s finished, only then does Geralt speak. “Thank you,” is all he says before he lifts the blanket he and the cub are sharing, inviting Jaskier to slip inside. 

He does so happily, soaking up the warmth from their bodies and from the response he received for his latest song. He vows to compose more songs about the wolves of the keep, once they’re safely behind stone walls that can block out the world. 

\--

The keep is everything and nothing like Jaskier expected it to be. The crumbling edifice doesn’t distract from the sheer magnitude of Kaer Morhen, and the magic etched deep into the stone calls out to Jaskier, singing to his very bones. He knows this place has many faces, bears the scars of a long-lived life of sins, but also carries the warmth of family and safety inside of it. He loves it immediately. 

As they near the gates, Geralt lets out a shrill whistle, pausing a moment, tensed like he’s waiting for something. Another shrill whistle is his response, and the way he visibly relaxes is palpable. “Vesemir is here, and I think my brothers should be here as well.” 

Now that Jaskier is so close, can feel the power of the keep pulsing against his skin, he pulls the princess to his side and says, “Welcome home, Ciri.” He likes the way her name tastes on his tongue, like lemon and vanilla and a sweet burst of honeysuckle in the back of his throat. 

She lets out a sob and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He can smell her tears, but they’re sweet, not bitter like sadness. “You said my name,” she whispers, voice soft with wonder. 

“I told you, sweetling. Your name was a powerful secret to guard, I dared not even think it until I knew that we were here.” He kisses her hair and twines it between his fingers, using just a little of his magic to weave bluebells into the braid he’d put it in this morning. 

Words have power. Names even more so. Everyone knows this.

“Come on, you two. Let’s get you both warm and fed,” Geralt says, keeping his voice soft so as not to break the softness of the moment between them. Food does sound heavenly, and Ciri’s cheeks are flush with color from the cold and the wind. 

As they move closer, Jaskier stops in his tracks. Despite the way that this place calls to him, inviting him inside, he remembers that he is walking into the den of wolves, of _monster hunters_. Just because Geralt has no designs on cutting him down with his swords, that doesn’t mean his brothers will share that thought. It makes him quake, begonias springing up around his feet even though the snow, and the taste of lavender is thick on his tongue. “Geralt… should I use my glamour? What if they--”

“Hush,” Geralt whispers, suddenly so close that Jaskier can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of winter chill on his pale skin. He smells like the mountain, this close to his home, and Jaskier tries to let it soothe him. Geralt reaches up and presses his thumb against his lips, an echo back to the promise he made under the cover of night. “You won’t need it. You’re my guest, and they won’t harm you.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “They might pester you with questions. Fae are like dragons; most Witchers have never met one, nor will they ever in their lifetime. If anything, you’ll be a novelty to them.” 

A month ago, the words would have stung, rattled him deep down into the very heart of him. But now, the warmth of Geralt’s promise has blossomed into a thriving vine in his chest, soothing the sting of his dark thoughts. “I hope they’re prepared for half-truths and stories spun like hay into gold,” he says with a grin, showing too many teeth. He wouldn’t be cruel, of course, but Jaskier has spent so long denying his nature, and it wouldn’t be prudent to spill all of his secrets to a group of monster hunters, no matter how friendly they might seem. 

Geralt lets out a low huff of breath, but Jaskier doesn’t miss the way his eyes are crinkling up at the corners, betraying his amusement at the fae’s antics. Jaskier feels like his very soul might sprout wings and fly away. 

So he does as Geralt asks and doesn’t pull the skin of Jaskier the bard on, which makes warmth settle into his bones. The fact that Geralt wants him like this, in his true form in the place where he feels safest, makes him giddy and flush with pleasure. He begins to hum, a jaunty little tune that puts a spring in all of their steps, even Roach. The heavy gates creak open with a thunderous echo, and Jaskier sees the shapes of two men standing in the open space. One of them is older, grizzled, but his eyes are soft when he looks upon them. The other is a mountain of a man, with a kind face that has jagged scars marring one side. Jaskier wracks his brain and smiles when he realizes who they must be. “That must be Vesemir… and Eskel?” he asks, remembering from Geralt’s stories on the way up.

Ciri lets out an excited noise and Geralt nods, a small smile of his own curving onto his mouth. It’s like all of the tension Jaskier has seen him carry for so long has leached out of him, leaving him loose in a way that Jaskier wishes Geralt could be all the time. “Yes, that’s them. I’m assuming Lambert is in the keep somewhere.” 

“We made it!” Ciri calls out, wiggling in the saddle and attempting to jump down from where she’s sitting against Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt takes a moment to greet both men, clasping forearms with Vesemir and pressing his forehead together with Eskel. The softness and familiarity of the motion makes Jaskier ache. “Vesmir, Eskel, this is Ciri and Jaskier, my Child Surprise and my bard.” 

The words make butterflies dance in Jaskier’s gut, his pieced together heart pulsing wildly in his chest at the one small word of ownership Geralt used. Of course Jaskier was his; he always has been, and always would be. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

Eskel lets out a whistle. “You didn’t tell us he was fae,” he says, smirking at Geralt and crossing his arms across his massive chest. It’s startling how similar they look, even with the scarring on the right side of the Witcher’s face. 

Geralt grunts, tugging Roach’s reins to move her forward inside the gates. As they move in, Jaskier can feel the magic of the place twining with his, inviting him forward. It’s the snow on the mountain, the stone of the castle walls, the healing springs he can feel rushing beneath the ground. It’s not his summer fields and meadows filled with flowers, but something about Kaer Morhen resonates in his very soul, saying _you’re home you’re home you’re home._

He’s so preoccupied that he catches the tail end of the conversation that has passed by without him. “...and when I found him again, he looked like this. Fae magic is apparently powerful enough to bypass medallions, it seems.” 

“To be fair, it was the Queen of Summer who bound me into human form, not just your run-of-the-mill fae. Perhaps over some fine wine and good food, I’ll tell you the tale of how Buttercup the fae became Jaskier the bard,” he says with a cheeky wink towards Geralt. Once, spinning such a story would have hurt him deeply, would have made him want to cut out his own tongue so he didn’t give voice to his mistakes. But now, welcomed into the arms of the keep, he feels a knot inside of him start to loosen. 

_I’m sorry, my Queen_ , he thinks to himself as Vesemir’s voice washes over him, gruffly explaining to Geralt all that needs to be done before the thick of winter hits. _I may not be returning after all._

\--

That night he lies in Geralt’s bed, skin warm from the fire and the thick furs he’s curled in, and he thinks of what the next few months will bring. He feels he owes his loyalty to his queen, having completed the task she graciously blessed him for, but the idea of leaving Ciri and Geralt behind makes him feel like his heart is being scooped out of his chest again. The blossoming hope in his chest is lush and full, and he doesn’t want to see it wilt over this. He tried to drown it out with wine and good food and stories, but it still sits heavy like a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

“Jaskier? What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, closing the door behind him. There’s the faintest scent of willow in the air; he feels the bed dip when Geralt sits down beside him. “Are you… unhappy here?” 

The words taste like salt in the air and Jaskier sits up, reaching up to cup Geralt’s jaw in his hand. He looks, really _looks_ , and can see the pinched lines on the Witcher’s face. “That’s the problem, dear heart. I am very happy here,” he says sadly, running his thumb along the plane of Geralt’s cheek, smoothing over the scar there with gentle touches. “I’m supposed to leave you now, go back to the Summer Court now that my task is complete, but…” he trails off, the words like ash on his tongue.

Geralt’s face is clouded over, like he’s trying for blank but failing. It both warms Jaskier’s heart and cracks it in two to see his Witcher so distressed. He might be out of practice at interpreting his facial expressions, but he can smell the sour scent of pain rolling off of him. “But?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier bites his lip and can feel hot tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, sadness like a weight around his heart. “But I don’t want to. Leaving you when you sent me away nearly killed me, and I don’t know if my heart can take it a second time, especially of my own doing. I _need_ to be here with you and Ciri, and your keep calls to me to stay, like it’s home.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s eyes go soft at the edges, the way his lips tilt up into a smile that makes Jaskier’s gut flutter. “It is, if you want it to be. I _want_ it to be, for you. Jaskier, I want you here with me, with us, and on the path when I leave in the spring. I... want you with me, always.” Geralt cups his jaw in kind and Jaskier can feel the way the moment swells between them, and the promise that was pressed into his lips becomes reality. Geralt kisses him and it’s everything he ever wanted. He melts into it, falls into Geralt, who catches him as the kiss deepens. Heat floods every single part of him and Jaskier pulls back with a gasp, too much and not enough all at once.

“Geralt… you…” he tries to say, but his head is in the clouds and his heart is racing in his chest. The pieces of his broken heart slot back into place. He feels the warmth pulsing there, filling up the hole that had been left until it’s overflowing. “Do you mean it?” 

Geralt hums, brushing his thumb along Jaskier’s lip again. “I do. I love you, Jaskier. With all the ability to love that I have,” he says softly, and Jaskier can feel the way the world simmers around them, the sharp edges inside of him smoothing out at the declaration. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

The tears spill over and Jaskier wraps his arms around his Witcher, crawling into his lap and pressing up against him as tight as he can. “I love you too, you ridiculous man. And you have all the ability to love, so don’t say that. Look at how you love your brothers, our cub... and me,” he replies breathlessly, covering Geralt’s face with feather-light kisses in between his words. The air fills with the sweet scent of white jasmine, and there’s a veritable carpet of red tulips that has sprawled across the floor of Geralt’s--no, _their_ bedroom. For once, Jaskier feels heat flood his face at his rather obvious display. “Sorry, I'll clean that up.” 

“Don’t apologize. The keep could use some color. And I’m sure Vesemir would appreciate your help in the greenhouse this winter,” Geralt murmurs, running his fingers along Jaskier’s sides, seeming to be content with just sitting here together, being close. “So you’ll stay?” 

“Of course, my love. Nothing could drag me away now. You’re stuck with me,” Jaskier teases, but after a beat his smile drops. He takes a deep breath and says, “Fae only truly love once, Geralt. I know you’ve seen me hop in and out of beds, and weave words of adoration to my former lovers, but it was never anything serious. I just… needed you to know that. You’re it for me, my Witcher. I know--” He stops himself, biting his lip as his throat closes around the words he needs to say. He’s afraid that if he says them now, it’ll ruin this perfect moment that’s been steadily growing around them. “What about Yennefer?” 

A myriad of expressions cross Geralt’s face, until it settles into something soft and open. “She and I will be forever bound by my wish, but… it’s not like it was before. She still hasn’t forgiven me, but Ciri will need her help to learn how to control her Chaos. The two of you together could provide Ciri with everything she needs to be a powerful sorceress.” He pauses, reaching up to cup Jaskier’s chin. He leans into the touch, warm and familiar and grounding. “A part of me will always love her, as a former lover and a friend, but the rest of me belongs to you. It always will. It’s just you, Jaskier.” 

The dark thoughts that try to slip through the cracks of his heart wind around it for just a moment, until Jaskier rips them out by the root. He knows the weight of the djinn’s magic, and he’s willing to be that Yennefer, tenacious and resourceful as she is, will figure out a way to break it. 

“Will that be enough?”

Geralt’s question breaks him out of his thoughts before they can creep up further. He turns just in time to see the shadows starting to creep across his Witcher’s face. “Oh, my love… of course it is. It’s enough to know that you love me, and I love you,” he murmured, moving closer to kiss Geralt again. It’s just as good the second time, as warmth pools low in Jaskier’s belly with just how good it is. He trails a hand through Geralt’s hair, winding daffodil buds and honeysuckle into the strands. It’s a declaration, a promise that he will love Geralt until the end of his days. 

They make love that night, Jaskier astride Geralt’s hips as they move together in their bed. Geralt is a vision beneath him, face twisted in pleasure and his moans fill the air around them. Jaskier knows that he could watch this forever, and he will if he has anything to say about it. He’ll keep this moment tucked inside his heart as it swells with the love and affection he has for the man beneath him. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants as he comes, clutching tight to Geralt and feeling it through every single nerve ending. He’s never felt anything like this, and he wants to hold onto Geralt as tight as he can.

They’re so wrapped up in each other that neither of them notices the single monarch butterfly resting on the windowsill, flapping its wings and taking flight in a swirl of magic. Somewhere, on a throne in a land of eternal summer, the Summer Queen holds out of her finger and the butterfly lands. She listens quietly for a moment and smiles, snapping her fingers as the world shivers around her. “Until spring, then.” 

\--

Winter passes slowly enough that Jaskier barely notices until he can feel the change in the air, smell the beginnings of the earth waking up beneath his feet. The keep is still cold, but the stirrings of his magic blossoming like the shoots beneath the snow makes him smile. Despite the winter chill that had settled into his bones, wintering in the wolves’ den has been a blessing in itself. Even when Yennefer came to call to work out a schedule with Geralt on how best to tutor Ciri, Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to be upset. The two of them even manage to have a decent conversation, one that doesn’t leave him feel scooped out and hollow. His heart is a riotous bloom inside his chest, fruitful and lush with all the love he has for Geralt and their cub. 

He bids farewell to Ciri when Yennefer comes to retrieve her as the snow melts, his chest aching, but they make plans to meet up in a few months’ time. He’s already looking forward to it, to holding their darling girl in his arms and weaving blessings into her beautiful hair. As a parting gift, he hands her a single white carnation to take with her. “It will not wilt, but will remind you that we love you and cannot wait to be reunited, my cub,” he whispers into her ear, pressing soft kisses into her hair. He can smell the tears on her face and he wipes them away with a gentle hand before he tilts her chin up. “Be strong, my lion cub. When next we meet, perhaps I will steal you away to my court for a nice vacation, hmm?”

Her laughter is like the tinkling of bells, warming him from the inside out. Then, he steps back, giving Geralt a moment of his own. His heart swells in his chest as Geralt embraces her and kisses her hair, in the same place that Jaskier did. He doesn’t listen to the soft words spoken between them, letting them have their secrets. Ciri’s eyes are dry when Geralt pulls back, her chin up and a determined look on her face as she follows Yennefer through the portal. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything when Jaskier steps forward, threading their fingers together when the portal collapses behind the two of them. “It won’t be long before we see her again, my love. She’ll be fine,” Jaskier coos to him, earning himself a kiss on the forehead. “Now, shouldn’t we be on our way as well? Lambert and Eskel have already gone, and I’m sure Vesemir will be looking forward to some peace and quiet.” 

“Hmm, we’ll leave in the morning. Make our way down the mountain and then decide which way to go,” Geralt replies, still watching where the portal had disappeared. 

From nearby, Jaskier stills when he hears the call of a single bluebird, sweet and out of place in the high mountains. The sound is familiar, warming, and he finds himself laughing before he can think better of it. “How do you feel about Kerack?” he asks, licking his lips and waiting. 

“Why Kerack?”

Jaskier points to where the bluebird is perched on a nearby branch, still singing its pretty little song. “I’m being summoned back to my court. And… I would like you to come with me, if that’s all right.” He waits with bated breath, his entire being still as the grave as he watches Geralt. He’s not sure the man understands the weight of the request, but Jaskier would never push, not after everything they’ve gone through together. If he says no, then Jaskier will go without him, even though the very thought of it makes his stomach sink and his heart feel like it’s going to break again. Their love is not so fragile, he knows, but he can’t help but keep it cradled in his palms like a fledgling. “You don’t have to, I know--”

The tumble of words is silenced with a deep kiss, Jaskier’s eyes falling shut as he lets himself sink into the warmth of it. His entire body shakes beneath Geralt’s touch and he can feel his magic calling out to the new growth that’s just waking up beneath their feet. When they part, Geralt says softly, “It would be my honor, Jaskier.” 

A soft sob escapes him before he can hold it back behind his teeth. “All right. To Kerack, then?” His chest feels like shooting stars and fireworks are going off inside of him, his skin warm and flush with pleasure that coils in his belly. Geralt wants to come home with him, just as he had joined his Witcher here in his den. It makes his belly flutter. Home, for both of them, carries just as many bad memories as good ones, but Jaskier is eager to remedy the balance there. 

Part of him wants to secret Geralt away, keep him to himself like a shiny bauble that is his and his alone. After so long wanting, why shouldn’t he keep his beautiful Witcher to himself? But a bigger part, the one that wins out, wants to take Geralt back to his queen and show her the man that made it all worth it. There has been pain, and sadness, but there has also been joy and love and Jaskier feels their love is like an oak tree, roots running deep to weather whatever life throws at them.

“To Kerack, then,” Geralt echoes. 

“But in the morning. We have to pack, and then we should take advantage of your delightful bed once more before we set out on the path together,” Jaskier trills, dancing around his Witcher as his magic makes the trees begin to bud, sweet grass beginning to peek out from beneath the blanket of snow. Geralt hums in agreement, but Jaskier delights in the soft smile that curls onto his Witcher’s mouth. He can’t help but to lean up and kiss that sweet little smile, the one he’s learned is just for him. “I love you, Geralt of Rivia. And I plan to keep you for as long as you’ll let me.” 

“For forever, then,” Geralt murmurs back, as they disappear into the keep together. 

The air shivers and the magic in the air hums, as the bluebird takes flight and the keep pays witness to the promise that lingers in the air. 

Words have power. Everyone knows this. 

-END-


	4. Note: Flower Meanings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are the flower meanings broken down by each part

Part I  
Anemone: forsaken  
Begonia: dark thoughts  
Purple Hyacinth: Sorrow  
Marigold: Despair, grief  
Yarrow: Everlasting love  
Butterfly weed: Let me go  
Yellow chrysanthemum: slighted love  
Carnations: love  
Chamomile: patience in adversity  
Coriander: hidden worth/merit  
Aloe: grief  
Crab blossoms: Ill nature   
Dark crimson roses: mourning  
Lemon balm: sympathy  
Red poppies: consolation  
Belladonna: silence  
Sage: wisdom, immortality  
Purple aster: daintiness  
Oak: Strength  
Larkspur: lightness, levity  
Goldenrod: encouragement, good fortune  
Daisies: hope  
Willow: sadness  
Columbine: foolishness, folly  
Iris: A message  
Rosemary: remembrance  
Edelweiss: courage, devotion  
Thyme: courage, strength  
Sweet basil: good wishes

Part II  
Daisies: hope  
Lemon balm: sympathy  
Oak: strength  
Belladonna: silence  
Fern: humility, magic  
Zinnia: thoughts of absent friends  
Red carnation: my heart aches  
White carnation: innocence, pure love  
Spring crocus: youthful gladness  
Cyclamen: resignation, diffidence  
Yellow chrysanthemum: slighted love  
Honeysuckle: bonds of love  
White Jasmine: sweet love, amiability 

Part III  
Morning Glory: affection  
Tarragon: lasting interest  
Sage: immortality  
Sweet william: gallantry  
Sweet pea: delicate pleasures  
Yellow tulips: sunshine in your smile  
Honeysuckle: bonds of love  
Begonias: beware, dark thoughts  
Lavender: distrust  
Willow: sadness  
White jasmine: sweet love  
Red tulips: passion, declaration of love  
Daffodil: regard, unequalled love  
White carnation: pure love, a woman’s good luck gift

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Love it? Let me know in a comment or come find me on Discord to tell me what you thought!
> 
> Tumblr || eyesofshinigami  
> Discord || #eyesofshinigami0707


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